


the greatest disaster

by GreyMichaela



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Multi, Pining, Rating May Change, Rivals to Lovers, Rookie Year, and instead it's a whole Thing™, this was supposed to be PWP goddammit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:00:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22866736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyMichaela/pseuds/GreyMichaela
Summary: “You need to keep a sense of perspective. Everyone’s pumping your tires, telling you—” Henrik stops at the visible confusion on Igor’s face and sighs. “Sasha, translate for me.”Alexandar scowls but repeats the sentence.“Everyone’s telling you how incredible you are,” Henrik says, and Alexandar obediently translates it. Igor doesn’t look at him, eyes on Henrik. “And you are, kid. You’re really something.” Igor thinks Alexandar might be in danger of cracking a crown at having to say that, but he repeats the words. “Your ability to track a puck is absolutely amazing, and your reflexes—”“Henke,” Alexandar says pleadingly.
Relationships: Chris Kreider/Mika Zibanejad, Igor Shesterkin/Alexandar Georgiev, Igor Shesterkin/Chris Kreider/Mika Zibanejad, Igor Shesterkin/Henrik Lundqvist
Comments: 52
Kudos: 173





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I have no excuses. I just wanted to write Igor because he's so very smol and talented and absolutely lighting it up with the Rangers, and the thought of the dynamics between him and the other goalies was too good to ignore. 
> 
> Possible warning: in a sense, all fanfic is an AU, so this is sort of an AU of an AU, in that group sex is a common initiation to teams. That doesn't happen to Igor, but he does have sex with multiple partners before settling into his end ship, which is Alexandar. There is no cheating.

He’s heard the stories. They’ve all heard the stories. Guys who get called up, who stay more than two games, come back smiling, quietly pleased with themselves. They don’t say much, but the whispers go around.  _ The Rangers welcome their rookies properly. _

Igor doesn’t really listen much. His English is shaky at best, and it’s easy—too easy, probably—to let the chatter wash over him in the locker room as several rookies whisper next to him. Igor hears Lundqvist’s name, and Mika’s, but he doesn’t try to pick out specifics. He’s got hockey to play, after all.

He goes to training camp, and meets Henrik. Awestruck, Igor immediately forgets the half-dozen phrases he’d carefully prepared in English and instead stammers something in Russian, then blushes bright red. He expects laughter, or chirping from the players, but when he looks up, Henrik is smiling at him. He’s somehow even more handsome up close, his blue eyes warm and a smile curving his generous mouth.

“Welcome to camp,” he says in careful Russian, and it’s possible Igor falls a little bit in love.

He meets most of the team, and likes nearly all of them. Brady is goofy and sweet and waves his arms when he talks to Igor like he thinks that will somehow make up for the fact that Igor can’t understand a word he’s saying. Smitty is somehow even louder than Brady. Pavel and Artemi welcome him and Igor spends the most time with them, mostly for the sheer relief of hearing Russian. And he meets Alexandar.

Igor sees him in the locker room before the practice, but Alexandar ignores him even as the rest of the team welcomes him, and Igor’s so busy trying to understand what they’re saying that he doesn’t attempt to introduce himself even though he knows he should, this is going to be his partner if things go well.

On the ice, it’s a different story. There are three goalies and two nets. That means they have to rotate to give everyone equal playing time. When Igor is in net, Alexandar is off to the side, watching him. Every time Igor looks at him, Alexandar meets his eyes, but there’s not a flicker of warmth, nothing in his cold brown eyes. 

It was too much to hope, Igor thinks, that Alexandar would have been happy to have him there. Too much to imagine they might have been a team. No, Igor is the usurper, here to upset the natural order of things. If he plays well, Alexandar’s job is on the line. Of course he doesn’t want Igor there.

Igor does his best to focus on his playing and doesn’t look in Alexandar’s direction very often.

After training camp, he starts working harder on his English, studying every night after workouts and practice. He’s not sure what sadistic maniacs came up with words like lackadaisical or comfortable, and he definitely doesn’t want to talk about Wednesday. But he keeps studying, as the Hartford Wolf Pack takes him in, makes him theirs, and the season gets underway.

As his English improves, he hears more stories, and maybe now he’s listening for Henrik’s name, trying to pick out the words surrounding it. He puzzles over them, fitting them into shapes that make sense in his head, and by the time he’s figured out half a sentence, the story’s nearly over. But he hears about how Henrik welcomes rookies and callups to the team, how kind he is, his gracious presence in the room, and Igor burns, just a little. He wants that. He wants Henrik to smile at him again, he wants to show him how much his English has improved. He wants to learn from him and watch him play and even play in front of him, something that terrifies him as much as it thrills him.

But the months roll on, and Georgiev and Lundqvist seem solid, unshakable. Igor focuses on his own game, keeping his team together, improving his techniques by watching tape of Henrik between the pipes. He watches Alexandar too, studying how he moves. He's good, he's really good, and Igor can't help the surge of jealousy. Alexandar has what Igor wants, and there's no way he's letting it go.

He doesn’t really believe it when he gets called up. It feels a bit like a dream, holding the phone and wondering if he’d wished it into existence by wanting it so badly.

But then he’s packing his bags and he’s somehow on a plane and his phone is lighting up with messages of support from the team, and Igor feels small and confused and so, so excited.

He doesn’t remember much from the first game. He remembers how his hands shook on the way to the arena, how he shoved them under his thighs to hide the tremors. He remembers Chris greeting him in slightly clumsy Russian, long nose and wide smile and warm brown eyes. He remembers Alexandar watching him from the opposite side of the dressing room, jaw tight.

And he remembers the crowd, the way they cheered when he stepped on the ice. Somewhere between the bench and the net, he forgets about his nerves, forgets Henrik is watching him play, and when the whistle blows, he’s ready.

The game itself is a blur. Igor is so focused he barely smiles even after they win. He has to do a good job. He has to show them he deserves to be there. He can’t relax, not even with a win on home ice, in Madison Square Garden, with Mika cupping his face and yelling joyously at him over the roar of the crowd.

Chris takes him under his wing immediately, dragging Igor back to his huge apartment after their celebration. Pavel offers but Chris objects loudly that it’s his turn to have a rookie and Pavel rolls his eyes but lets him win. Igor doesn’t protest. He likes Chris, he’s easy to talk to even though his Russian is kind of terrible. Somehow they make it work, fragmented English and Russian mangled together as Chris tells him about a party he threw a few years back and Igor tries not to be intimidated by just how  _ expensive _ everything in his place is. The lamp on the bedside table cost more than his own bed, he’s pretty sure.

He nods when Chris asks if he’s comfortable, tries to thank him in halting English, but Chris waves it off, smiles at him.

“Win for us again, we’ll be even,” he says.

Igor can do that. He can. He  _ will _ . He’ll show them he’s meant to be on the team. He’ll show them he deserves to be there.

Mika’s in the kitchen when Igor wakes up and wanders sleepily out to investigate the possibility of food. The January sun slants through the huge double-paned windows, filling the kitchen with light and haloing Mika where he sits on a stool at Chris’s counter, hands wrapped around a mug. 

Chris is at the stove and something smells delicious. He looks up and smiles when Igor appears. 

“Hungry?”

Igor slides onto the stool beside Mika and accepts the coffee Chris pours. He’s not sure how to ask why Mika is there so early, if something’s wrong, but Mika looks serene and at home, talking about—Igor thinks it’s his niece as Chris makes interested noises, so Igor settles in, sips his coffee, and lets himself wake up in peace as caffeine filters through his system. 

The reason Mika is there becomes clear within a few minutes, when Chris hands him a plate and their fingers brush. Chris smiles, soft and uncomplicated, and Mika smiles back as Igor wonders whether he’s suddenly acquired the superpower of invisibility.

A lot of things suddenly make a little more sense now. Igor takes another sip of coffee and watches Mika gently chiding Chris over something—foot cream, maybe, but that can’t be right. 

Chris laughs, head tipped back, and Mika laughs with him, and Igor—Igor wants. He wants what they have, easy and comfortable. He wants someone to tease  _ him  _ about foot cream—okay, that  _ really  _ can’t be right. But he wants soft touches and intimate looks and breakfast together.

He wonders if he can ask Chris about the rumors of the locker room, of what might happen after his second game. If it’s true or just gossip, bragging and bravado. He doesn’t want to do it in front of Mika, though. Not that he doesn’t like Mika—he definitely does. But it’s something he doesn’t want to ask in front of anyone else, especially when he’s not likely to be able to get the words out in the proper order.

So he goes to practice with them, and he immediately forgets his English the minute Henrik smiles at him again, compliments on his game the night before. He blushes and stammers yet again and wants to crawl in a hole to die, but Henrik doesn’t seem to mind. He asks him questions in slow, simple phrases, giving Igor time to listen and translate in his head, and waits for the answers with the same patience.

“Your English is getting much better,” Henrik tells him, and Igor would die for him, that’s all there is to it.

He floats through practice in a haze of happiness, working extra hard to keep his angles sharp and track the puck through traffic. He doesn’t get scored on very often, which makes him pleased, deep under the burning desire to do better than anyone in the history of hockey goalies has ever done, and he’s surprised when practice is called and the players are sent to the showers.

He sits through the strategy session with the interpreter they’ve given him, a sweet girl named Anya maybe a year younger than him. She whispers what the coach is saying, their heads together for the entire session as Igor listens intently to the breakdown of the game, what they’d done right and what they’d done wrong.

Two seats away, Alexandar sits with a foot tucked beneath him. His English is much better than Igor’s, he doesn’t need a translator, but he doesn't offer to help. He listens to Quinn talking and never once looks in Igor’s direction.

Then it’s back home with Chris for the evening. Much better than a cold, blandly furnished apartment, Igor thinks, especially because Chris is so easy to talk to. They’re finding a rhythm for their conversations, sticking mostly to English at Igor’s request but lapsing into Russian occasionally when it gets to be too much.

Igor eats too much lo mein, laughs at Chris’s stories, and even tells some of his own. He’s relaxed and happy, even with the second game looming the next day, and he finds his moment to ask his question after they’ve cleaned up the dinner mess and they’re sprawled on Chris’s ridiculously enormous sofa, comfortably digesting.

“I want to ask,” he starts, and then stops, chewing on his lip.  _ How _ does he ask?

Chris is waiting, eyebrow raised, hands laced over his belly. 

Igor switches to Russian. “I’ve heard rumors,” he says. “Of what happens sometimes after games.”

“Rumors?” Chris is going to make him work for this, damn him.

Igor scowls at him, turning the words over in his head, looking for the best way to fit them together.  _ Just go for it, _ he tells himself finally, and blurts, “Do you have sex with the rookies?”

Chris laughs out loud, slouched deep in the sofa cushions. “Only if they want to,” he says, and Igor sits up straight.

“So you  _ do!” _ he says. 

“Sometimes.” Chris’s grin is comfortable and lazy, and Igor glares at him for not taking the issue seriously.

“How?” he asks.

Chris raises both eyebrows. “You need me to explain sex to you?”

Igor growls out loud in frustration and Chris laughs again but takes pity on him, sitting up.

“If you’re gonna be with us for long, you’ll get initiated,” he tells him in Russian. “It can include sex if you want it. Doesn’t have to if you’re not comfortable with the idea.”

“With who?” Igor asks, holding his breath.

“Anyone you want, kid,” Chris says. 

“Anyone?”

Chris lifts both eyebrows again. “Got someone in particular in mind?”

Igor blushes and ducks his head without answering.

“Ah.” Chris sounds almost regretful. “I’m not saying it wouldn’t happen, but it doesn’t very often, these days. He tends to keep out of it, mostly.”

Igor tries to absorb the disappointment without letting it show on his face, but he’s obviously not successful because Chris makes a noise and reaches out to touch his knee.

“Ask him,” he says. “All he can do is say no. And if you don’t ask, you’ll never know if it could have happened.”

“But if he doesn’t want—”

“Then he’ll say no, and he’ll do it in a way that won’t hurt you, because that’s just who he is. But I have a feeling you won’t forgive yourself if you don’t at least try.”

Igor thinks about it as he goes to bed. He’s still thinking about it in the morning. Mika’s there again, and Igor wonders with carefully hidden amusement if he sneaks in late at night, like a teenager after curfew. He doesn’t ask, just smiles at him and eats breakfast and keeps his thoughts close.

Practice is noisy and harried. Brady talks to him, does a lot of gesturing and smiling in that dopey way of his, and Igor does his best to respond. Pavel and Artemi talk to him too, and that’s easier, hearing his native tongue spoken fluently. Alexandar is still… Alexandar. He practices, sharp and focused, and Igor might as well not exist. Igor watches Henrik and thinks about what Chris said. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t even think about asking. If he wins, if he stays up, he’ll think about it then.

He wins.

_ They _ win, the Rangers giving him the support he needs, never leaving him hanging but always there blocking shots, keeping players off him, doing everything they can to help him do his job. He’s still so focused, so strung up, he can’t let himself relax, not yet, but when he sees Chris grinning at him from the line-up, Igor can’t help the wide grin in response. Chris hugs him, yells something in his ear, but Igor can’t understand him and doesn’t try. He just grins manically at him. And then he’s saluting the crowd as they cheer, a sense of surreality enveloping him. 

He follows the team back to the locker room and somehow makes it through cool downs and the media scrums. Anya is there again to help with the questions that are fired at him way too fast, and Igor carefully doesn’t look over at Henrik in his stall, talking to his own reporters. 

Finally, the reporters are gone, though, and Coach is done with his mostly unintelligible speech that Igor is pretty sure is praise for the way they played. 

Then he’s gone too, and it’s just the players. Igor is exhausted in every fiber but he doesn’t miss the look Mika and Chris trade before Mika stands and clears his throat. 

“It’s time,” he says. “Igor?” He holds out a hand and Igor rises to join him, blood suddenly thrumming in his ears. Mika fixes him with a serious look as Chris stands too and translates for him. “We want to welcome you to the team, and we’re going to do that in our own way. But you need to know you can stop at any time. No harm will come to you in here. Do you understand?”

Igor swallows hard. Everyone is watching him. “Da,” he says, and clears his throat.”Yes. I… understand.” He looks up, into Mika’s stunning eyes, warm with approval and encouragement, and somehow finds the nerve to find the words. “What will you do?”

Mika smiles at him as if he’d been waiting for the question. “This,” he says, and kisses him. 

Igor’s brain stutters to a stop. Mika’s mouth is soft and he cups Igor’s face in both hands, licking gently into his mouth and brushing their tongues together. 

When he raises his head, Chris is there, very nearly shouldering a laughing Mika out of the way. 

“Hey kid,” Chris says, running his hands down Igor’s arms. “You okay?”

Igor nods, dazed. He can still taste Mika on his lips, and Chris is leaning in, a hand coming up to cradle the back of Igor’s skull. 

He keeps the kiss light and teasing at first, but then he tilts Igor’s head back and deepens his touch, until Igor is panting into his mouth and clinging to him to stay upright. 

When he breaks the kiss, Igor moans in protest. Chris laughs and pecks him on the nose. “Gotta save some for the rest of the team,” he teases, and steps back. 

Alexandar is next, and Igor tenses. Alexandar’s eyes are sharp, still cold, but he steps up so they’re toe-to-toe, only a few inches apart.

Igor says nothing, watching him warily. That Alexandar doesn’t want to be here is clearly evident. Igor’s honestly not sure whether he’s going to kiss him or bite him.

“I’m supposed to kiss you,” Alexandar says in Russian, low and so close only Igor can hear. It’s the first time he’s spoken to him, Igor realizes.

“You don’t have to,” he says.

Alexandar scoffs at that, still right up in Igor’s personal space. “And be ostracized? I don’t think so. Just don’t get any ideas that this means I like you or want you here.”

“Get on with it,” Mika calls from a few feet away, and Alexandar’s eyes flash.

They’re close enough in height that Igor has to tip his head only a little for their mouths to meet. Alexandar’s kiss is neutral at first, one hand coming up to cup Igor’s jaw. His thumb strokes Igor’s cheekbone as he presses in, turning the kiss from soft to demanding until Igor can’t process anything but the way Alexandar feels plastered up against him, one hand still on his face and the other drifting to Igor’s hip to tug him closer yet. Igor’s lips are tingling when Alexandar pulls away and he can’t remember how to breathe. Alexandar smiles. There’s amusement and maybe just an edge of competition there, and Igor narrows his eyes, but Pavel is next, smiling widely, and Igor switches his focus to him. Pavel kisses Igor on both cheeks and then on his mouth, quick and affectionate, and steps away. 

The rest of the team is lining up, forming a messy queue. Lindgren, Trouba, Smith, Skjei—the faces begin to blur, but one by one, they put their mouths on Igor, on his lips, his cheeks, his throat, claiming him as theirs until Igor is struggling to stay upright, his knees turning to water. 

Chris steps up behind him and slips his arms around Igor’s waist. “How’s that?” he murmurs. 

Igor leans back against him gratefully, letting Chris take his weight as Artemi sucks a mark into Igor’s throat, pulling off with a slick noise when Igor is moaning and giving him a smug smile. 

Chris tightens his grip. Jesper follows Artemi’s lead and gives Igor another hickey lower down, just below the collar of his UnderArmor. Igor is beginning to get the feeling he may not survive this, desire pooling low in his belly and shivering through his veins. 

More teammates take their place in front of him. Sometimes the kisses are chaste. Sometimes they’re hot and hungry, making Igor’s knees even weaker. 

He’s entirely lost track of how many players have filed past him until Chris squeezes his waist. 

“One more,” he says in Igor’s ear. “You ready?”

Igor looks up and Henrik is there, filling his vision. He’s in his UnderArmor as well, but somehow he manages to make it look debonair, a style choice rather than a practicality. 

Igor swallows audibly, and one of Henrik’s eyebrows notches up just slightly. He steps in close, near enough Igor can feel his body heat, but he doesn’t kiss him immediately. Instead he looks at him, that intense gaze flaying Igor open to the core. He rakes his eyes down Igor’s body, over the obvious sign of Igor’s arousal, and Igor is already trembling when Henrik finally,  _ finally  _ touches him, one warm hand on Igor’s jaw. 

Igor closes his eyes and turns his face into Henrik’s hand, reveling in the feel of him. He wants more, but he also never wants this to end, so he doesn’t move, waiting for Henrik to take the next step. 

Henrik says something in Swedish, voice thick, and then switches to English. “Look at me,” he says, and Igor obeys immediately. Henrik smiles at him, hand still on Igor’s face. 

But he doesn’t move, and Igor almost whines, squirming in Chris’s arms, desperate for him to  _ get on with it.  _

“Please,” he says, and he doesn’t recognize his own voice, so high and needy, “please, Henrik.”

Henrik’s eyes crease with his smile. “Yeah,” he says, and fits their mouths together. 

Henrik is not a big man, two inches shorter than Igor, although they weigh about the same, but he feels overwhelming, crowding Igor’s senses until he’s all Igor can feel, taste, or smell. 

Of course he kisses like a pro, lips soft and tongue sweet and seeking against Igor’s. He presses closer, deepening the kiss, and Igor melts into it eagerly, his head spinning. He doesn’t realize he’s got his arms around Henrik’s neck until Henrik breaks the kiss, panting. 

Igor is suspended for a moment between Henrik and Chris, and then Chris lets go. Igor falls forward and Henrik catches him immediately, pulling him closer. Igor makes a pleased noise and tucks his face into the crook of Henrik’s neck, smelling the spice of his cologne, and Henrik swears, sounding choked. 

“Igor,” he says. 

Igor doesn’t answer. If Henrik isn’t kissing him, he sees no reason to move. If he lets go, Henrik will stop touching him altogether, and the thought makes Igor’s heart clench. He buries his face deeper and holds on. 

Henrik sighs, but he doesn’t sound upset. He rubs Igor’s back with soothing sweeps of his hand. Igor can hear the men talking around him, getting ready to leave, and his stomach twists.  _ No no no.  _ It can’t be over. But he doesn’t know how to  _ ask.  _

“Sweetheart, look at me,” Henrik says, and Igor reluctantly lifts his head. Henrik is so close, he’s slightly out of focus, but he’s smiling at him. “I need to ask you something,” he says. “Am I reading this right?”

Igor frowns. Reading? He doesn’t see what the situation has to do with books. 

Chris clears his throat. “He wants to know if you want him,” he says in Russian, and Igor nods frantically. 

“Da,  _ da,  _ I do, please, I want—”

“Say it,” Henrik orders. “I need to hear it.”

“You,” Igor whispers. “I want you.”

Henrik catches his mouth in a searing kiss and Igor falls into it with a grateful moan. 

They’re both out of breath when Henrik breaks it this time. 

“Next question,” he says. “Do you want me here, in front of the team? Or alone?”

Head too fogged with lust to understand, Igor waits for Chris’s translation. He catches his breath when he realizes what Henrik is asking, and he glances around the room. 

The men left watch him, some with open hunger on their faces, others with speculation. 

Igor is safe with them, he already knows that with a bone deep certainty, but if he gets to choose—he looks up into Henrik’s face. 

“Is it… can just be you?”

He’s never seen anything as beautiful as Henrik’s smile, he thinks. 

The next few minutes are a confused jumble. Igor is vaguely aware of the players leaving, smiling at him on their way out. He smiles back, feeling his ears burning, and gets dressed with shaking hands as Henrik does the same, a few stalls away. 

Chris comes to him before he and Mika leave, tipping Igor’s head up and searching his face. Igor smiles at him, wildly, transcendently happy, and Chris smiles back as if on reflex, but there’s a tiny wrinkle between his brows. 

“Be careful,” he says in quiet Russian. 

Igor frowns, joy dimming. “Why?”

Chris shakes his head. “Don’t fall in love with him, kid. You’ll just get your heart broken and I don’t want that to happen.”

“I’m not in love with him,” Igor says, surprised.

Chris smiles, releasing him. “Okay. Have fun and play safe.”

Then Henrik is there, a question in his eyes, and Igor nods, touches Chris’s shoulder, and follows him out the door. His last sight of the locker room is Alexandar watching him, eyes calculating, assessing, judging him and finding him unworthy.


	2. Chapter 2

He’s not in love with Henrik. Igor knows this. He watches him as they ride in silence. Henrik’s a good driver even in New York traffic, calm and unflappable as he maneuvers through the choked lanes toward his neighborhood. 

It’s a crush, that’s all it is. He barely knows Henrik, not really, and despite Igor’s youth and relative inexperience, he isn’t naive enough to think he’s starting a relationship. But this _is_ something he’s wanted for more than six months, and he’s determined to enjoy it, so he reaches out, trails one finger along the back of Henrik’s hand where it rests on the gearshift, and savors the quick intake of breath.

“Is okay?” Igor asks, just to be sure, and Henrik slants a smile at him.

“As long as you don’t get too—” Henrik says. Igor tries to sound out the word but he gives up after a minute. Henrik is watching him from the corner of his eye, and he lifts the hand that was on the gearshift. “Just my hand, for now. Okay?”

“Okay,” Igor agrees. He touches Henrik’s knuckle, runs his finger over the joint, and along the back of his hand. Crisp, soft hair curls against the pad of his finger as Igor traces the muscles and tendons, marveling at the size, the strength and obvious dexterity.

“I think that’s enough,” Henrik says, pulling his hand away, and Igor flinches at first but then Henrik adjusts himself, shifting his weight, and Igor swallows delight. _He_ did that, caused that reaction. He can wait, as long as he knows Henrik is as affected by this as he is.

Henrik’s house is even nicer than Chris’s, comfortable furnishings and high-vaulted ceilings over polished hardwood floors. Henrik guides him inside the foyer with a hand on Igor’s lower back, where they take off their shoes, then it’s down the hall to the kitchen.

There, he puts Igor on a stool at the counter and sets a kettle on the stove. While the water heats, he puts tea bags in mugs and sets out a small plate of cookies. Igor nibbles on one to be polite, watching him through his lashes as Henrik pours the water over the bags and the smell of tea rises in a cloud.

Henrik steps between Igor’s knees as the tea steeps, and Igor tilts his head to look up at him.

“Still okay?” Henrik asks.

Igor is touched by his concern but it’s not necessary, nor is it wanted. He palms Henrik’s crotch in answer and Henrik sucks in a breath. Igor raises an eyebrow and Henrik’s laugh is a little stifled as he bends to kiss him.

“Yeah, you’re okay,” he says against his mouth, and Igor hums agreement.

They make out in silence, the only sounds the traffic outside and their own breathing. Igor arches into it, twining his arms around Henrik’s neck until Henrik pulls away with a muttered curse to grab the tea. 

Igor accepts his mug and Henrik turns to the refrigerator and pulls out several varieties of jam. 

“I’ve played with Russians long enough,” Henrik says dryly when Igor lights up. 

Igor gives him a huge smile and picks the marmalade. He stirs two spoonfuls into his tea, takes a sip, and sighs, closing his eyes. It tastes like home, and Igor is swamped with a sudden wave of nostalgia. He misses his home town, the twisty cobbled streets and iron gray sky, his father reading by the fire and his mother scolding him for leaving his wet things lying around. 

When he opens his eyes, Henrik is watching him, and the look on his face is unmistakable. 

Igor swallows hard and puts the cup down. “I don’t want tea,” he says.

Henrik’s mouth quirks up and he holds out a hand. “Come on, then.”

He isn’t entirely sure, later, how they make it up the stairs without one of them tripping and breaking something, so tangled up in each other Igor couldn’t tell where he stopped and Henrik began. Henrik is on the riser above him, making Igor stretch to reach him, hands tugging at Henrik’s shirt as they stumble up the steps in a drunken fashion, laughing into each other’s mouths and stopping to kiss some more.

Igor feels actually drunk, lit from head to toe with wild happiness. He’s fizzing with joy as Henrik drags him across the landing and into a huge bedroom. Somewhere along the way he’s lost his shirt and his pants are unbuckled. Henrik’s shirt is unbuttoned, hanging loose to reveal an undershirt, and Igor is reaching out to touch, ready to explore every inch of the man in front of him, when the reality of the situation suddenly slams into him and he stops, swaying. He’s in Henrik Lundqvist’s bedroom. He’s about to have _sex_ with Henrik Lundqvist.

Is this right? Does Henrik truly want him or is this all just for Igor’s benefit? A glance at Henrik’s crotch shows definite interest, but Henrik’s human, he's susceptible to external stimuli. Igor is young, but he's not stupid. He's here because he wants Henrik, but if Henrik doesn't want him, if he's just doing him a favor—

"Hey, hey," Henrik says, taking a step closer. "What's that face?"

Igor blinks at him, unsure what he's asking.

"What's wrong?" Henrik tries. He reaches out, cups Igor's shoulder in one warm hand. "Can you tell me?"

Igor honestly isn't sure he can. He misses the ease of his native tongue with the force of a gut-punch, sudden and shocking. He's _smart_ in Russian, he's funny and clever and makes everyone laugh. It's only in English that he's a fumbling idiot.

"Take your time," Henrik says. His eyes are warm with concern. "Nice and slow."

Igor swallows. "I—I want..." He gestures wordlessly and Henrik nods.

"But you—you not..." Igor would very much like to tear his hair out with frustration. _I want you but only if you truly want me too and not because you're doing me a favor. I don’t want a pity fuck._ Why can't he _say_ that?

"You not want me," he manages, feeling the blush firing his cheeks.

Henrik's eyebrows shoot up. He looks genuinely surprised, and it eases the tightness in Igor's chest somehow.

"Where did you get that idea?" he says, thumbing Igor's chin. "I've wanted you for a long time, sweetheart."

Hope unfurls under Igor's breastbone. "How long?" he whispers.

"Training camp," Henrik admits, smiling ruefully. "You were so nervous and so determined and I..." He breaks off and shrugs. 

"You want me." Igor makes it a statement, not a question, and Henrik nods immediately.

"Very much."

Igor smiles slowly at him and takes a step forward. "I can touch?" he asks, hooking one finger in Henrik's waistband.

Henrik's swallow is audible. "You've _been_ touching me," he points out, and for the first time, his voice is unsteady.

"Everywhere," Igor says, ducking his head and looking up at him through his lashes. "I want touch... everywhere."

 _"Fuck,"_ Henrik says, and reels Igor in by one arm so they're plastered together in a searing line of heat. He dips his head and sucks a livid mark into Igor's neck just above the one Artemi left, keeping at it until Igor is shaking and oversensitized, clutching Henrik's shoulders and begging in fragmented Russian.

Henrik pulls off and rolls his hips, grinding an impressive erection against Igor's thigh. "Bed," he says. "I want to touch _you_ everywhere too." He pushes him backward, hands busy with Igor's belt, and Igor gulps and shoves Henrik's shirt off his shoulders. Henrik shakes it down his arms and onto the floor, then pauses to strip off his undershirt and step out of his pants.

Igor's mouth goes dry. He's never looked at Henrik in the dressing room, always found reasons to be as far away as possible anytime Henrik started stripping just in case Henrik could read minds. 

And now Henrik is standing in front of him, gloriously naked. He’s all strength and sinew, lean muscle over sharp bone, sleek where Igor is bony, graceful even in utter stillness. Unlike Alexandar, who matches Igor nearly pound for pound and inch for inch, there’s a distinct difference in Henrik’s frame. The power coiled in his body is evident, and Igor's never seen anyone more beautiful.

He says so, and Henrik's mouth curves.

"I don't actually speak Russian," he reminds him, and Igor laughs and shoves his own pants off.

He gets self-conscious about his body sometimes, knowing he's still skinny, often losing enough weight during playoffs to alarm the trainers into force-feeding him high calorie meals. His elbows are pointy, his collarbones prominent, knees knobby.

But Henrik is looking at him with real hunger in his eyes, and Igor can't help but preen, just a little. Henrik wants him. _Him._ He's dreaming, but he refuses to wake up.

"Bed," Henrik says, and Igor turns to scramble onto it. When he flips onto his back, Henrik is crawling on behind him. Igor scoots up the mattress to give him room, erection stiff against his belly.

"Touch yourself," Henrik orders, and Igor is more than happy to oblige.

He wraps a hand around his length and can’t stop the groan that rips from his chest. Henrik swears, kneeling between Igor’s thighs and watching him raptly.

Igor’s eyes want to close but he fights to keep them open so he can watch Henrik, chewing on his lip as he drags his hand slowly up and down. It feels so good, heat pooling in his belly and making his toes curl. He pushes a heel against the bedcovers, gasping as he twists his wrist.

Henrik is watching intently but he’s not touching him, and Igor makes a stifled noise.

“Please,” he begs.

Henrik’s hands feel like brands on his skin when he lays them on Igor’s thighs, and Igor nearly sobs with relief. Henrik runs a palm over his thigh, across his knee, and then up, skating the ridge of Igor’s hipbone. He trails a finger along the crease of his hip, skimming over the curls and not quite touching his shaft.

Igor growls, twisting his hips, but Henrik laughs and avoids the blatant attempt, bracing his hands on either side of Igor’s ribs. Igor can feel his own heart beating rabbit-fast under Henrik’s palms as he splays his fingers over Igor’s chest.

“Beautiful, beautiful boy,” Henrik croons. “Look how lovely you are.”

He tweaks a nipple, rolling it between clever fingers, and Igor’s back arches as sparks ripple down his spine. 

“You like that?”

Igor nods wordlessly, panting.

Henrik switches focus to his other nipple, working him over until Igor is shaking. Then he leans forward and sucks a nipple into his mouth.

Igor cries out and lets go of his cock, slapping his hands against the headboard hard in a desperate effort not to come. 

Henrik plays his body like a finely tuned instrument, learning what actions get the best responses and repeating them over and over as Igor falls apart, tears leaking from his eyes as he writhes under Henrik’s mouth. 

_“Please,”_ he gasps. He doesn’t know what he’s asking for, only that he doesn’t have enough, even as it threatens to be too much. “Please Henrik, I need you—”

Henrik lifts his head. Whatever he sees on Igor’s face seems to satisfy him, and he crawls up his body, lowering himself until he’s blanketing him from hips to shoulders.

“Okay?” he murmurs.

Igor blinks back grateful tears and nods. Henrik dips to kiss him. His mouth is sweet, weight heavy but not stifling on top of him, and then he shifts and their cocks drag together and Igor catches his breath.

“That good?” Henrik asks. He leans up with one arm, reaching for something, but Igor can’t spare the brain cells to look. A bottle cap pops, and Henrik gives Igor another quick kiss and shifts up onto his elbows enough to squeeze some lube into his hand.

When he slips that hand between them and grips both their cocks at once, Igor’s eyes roll back in his head. It’s the first time Henrik has touched him there, and he’s going to come in a horrifyingly short time. Henrik’s big hand strokes them with just the right amount of pressure, slow and insistent like the rolling of the tide toward the shore. 

Igor can’t do it. He grabs the headboard again, turning his head away and squeezing his eyes shut even he bucks helplessly up into Henrik’s fist.

“You can come, sweetheart,” Henrik murmurs. 

Igor shakes his head blindly. If he comes, it’s over, and they’re done. He doesn’t want it to be over. He doesn’t want this to ever end.

Somehow, he holds on, clinging to his self-control by a fingernail. Henrik kisses up and down his throat, crooning to him, still stroking with the same steady rhythm.

Igor grabs Henrik’s shoulders, digging his fingers into the skin. Henrik moans and his hips stutter. 

“I’m close,” he manages, face buried in Igor’s throat. “I’m gonna—”

He shakes and goes still with a groan, and hot liquid splashes Igor’s belly. He strips himself through it, teeth scraping across Igor’s neck, and Igor can’t take it any longer. He convulses and comes with a sob, spilling over in helpless jerks. He’s dimly aware of Henrik whispering to him as darkness gathers and pulls him down.

When he wakes up, he’s in Henrik’s arms, clean and dry and under the covers. Henrik’s front is pressed to Igor’s back, his breath warm on Igor’s neck. Igor can’t tell if he’s asleep or not, so he lies still, thinking.

He’s just had sex with Henrik Lundqvist. The man he’s worshiped between the pipes most of his life has him in his arms. He’s welcomed him to the team in the best possible way. He lies quietly and rehearses the words he wants to use. 

Henrik stirs, and Igor is smiling when Henrik lifts his head.

“Hi,” Henrik says, lips curving. “Feel okay?”

Igor nods. “Thank you for welcome to team,” he says, tongue still clumsy in his mouth.

Henrik’s smile widens.

“My pleasure,” he says, and bends to kiss him.

They sleep tangled up together in Henrik’s luxurious bed, and Igor wakes feeling more rested than he has in a long time. Henrik is gone when he sits up, but he can hear faint noises from downstairs.

Igor uses the bathroom, gets dressed, and jogs down the stairs. Henrik is at the stove, humming under his breath, and he turns and smiles as Igor comes in.

“Morning. Sleep well?”

Igor slides onto a stool and smiles back at him. “Da. Is… com-fort-able… bed.” He grins widely at his success and Henrik laughs.

They eat breakfast without saying much. Igor’s still feeling repleted and lazy, in a ridiculously good mood. He checks his phone and sees a string of texts from Chris.

_Text me if you need a ride back here_

_Are you staying the night_

_I guess you’re staying the night_

_I’ll see you tomorrow_

_Remember what I said_

Igor shakes his head, smiling fondly.

“What?” Henrik asks.

“Chris,” Igor says, holding up the phone. “He worry. Think I’m baby.”

The doorbell rings before Henrik can answer and he frowns.

“Fuck. I forgot.”

“I should go?” Igor asks, already half out of his seat.

Henrik puts out a hand. “No, stay there. I’ll be right back.”

He leaves, and Igor props an elbow on the table to tap out a reply to Chris.

_Stop worry_

The response is immediate.

_I’m not worrying._

_I don’t worry._

_I’m very chill._

_Are you okay?_

Igor snorts as the sound of voices comes from the hall, getting closer. He’s typing again, still smiling, when Henrik enters. 

Right behind him is Alexandar.

Igor stiffens and shoves his phone in his pocket as he stands up fast.

“What are you doing here?” he demands.

Alexandar arches one brow. “Is this your house?” he asks coolly.

Igor opens and closes his mouth. “What do you want?” he finally says.

“Still not your house,” Alexandar reminds him, and Igor grits his teeth.

“Hey, whoa,” Henrik says, glancing between them. “Whatever it is you’re saying, it can be done in English. Both of you, sit down.”

They ignore him, focused on each other.

 _“Now.”_ The crack of command is impossible to ignore, and Igor sits immediately. Alexandar sinks into the chair opposite, his mask of icy indifference back in place, and pointedly doesn’t look at Igor.

Henrik sighs and sits between them. “Look, I know you don’t like each other. Everyone knows that, you don’t exactly hide it well. Sasha, you especially.”

Alexandar bristles but a glare from Henrik keeps his mouth shut.

“You know you don’t. And I get it. You think I don’t? _Me?”_ His laugh is brittle, without humor, and Igor ducks his head against the wash of shame. When he glances up, Alexandar looks similarly guilty, eyes fixed on the table. 

“Igor didn’t ask for this,” Henrik continues. “But you think he’s going to turn down the opportunity? Be realistic. Would _you?”_

A muscle in Alexandar’s jaw jumps. “I don’t like….”

“Me?” Igor finishes, bitter with futile anger he doesn’t know how to voice.

Alexandar snaps a glare at him. “The situation,” he says through his teeth. “For me. For Henke. You—you’re—”

“Sasha,” Henrik says warningly. 

Alexandar takes a breath through his nose. “I’m sorry, Henke,” he says after a minute. “He’s just… he’s sitting here in your kitchen like he _belongs_ here, like he’s earned this? After everything you’ve done, _we’ve_ done, and he—” 

“Enough,” Henrik says sharply, and Alexandar cuts himself off. “We’re a team, Sasha. The three of us. We have to be. No one outside this room will have your back more than any of us in it, not even our d-men. You _have_ to trust each other. You have to be happy when he succeeds, Sasha. Igor, you too.”

Igor nods, hearing his name, even though he’s only following about half the conversation.

“Why?” Alexandar asks, and his voice is so bitter it makes Igor’s stomach clench. “All anyone can talk about is how great he is, how he’s going to be the best goalie the Rangers have ever had, how he’s better than _you,”_ he throws at Henrik, who flinches. “And then you welcome him in, take him home and _sleep_ with him? Make him think he has a _place_ with us?”

Henrik slams his hands down hard on the table. _“He does.”_ His eyes are winter blue with fury, mouth tight. Igor shrinks in his seat even though the anger isn’t directed at him. Henrik is focused on Alexandar, whose jaw is tight, chin tipped up defiantly. “You don’t have to like it,” Henrik says. “You don’t have to like _him._ But you damn well need to get your priorities in order. Are you here for you or for the team?”

Alexandar doesn’t answer, his silence mulish.

“Sasha.”

“The team,” Alexandar says grudgingly. He doesn’t look at Igor. 

“We’re _all_ here for the team,” Henrik says. “No matter what, the team comes first. So if Quinn wants him in net, we’ll back him up, and we’ll smile when we’re asked about him and tell everyone how happy we are he’s here, what a great addition to the team he is. No matter _what._ You get me?” He turns to Igor. “And you.”

Igor tenses.

“You need to keep a sense of perspective. Everyone’s pumping your tires, telling you—” Henrik stops at the visible confusion on Igor’s face and sighs. “Sasha, translate for me.”

Alexandar scowls but repeats the sentences.

“Everyone’s telling you how incredible you are,” Henrik says, and Alexandar obediently translates it. Igor doesn’t look at him, eyes on Henrik. “And you are, kid. You’re really something.” Igor thinks Alexandar might be in danger of cracking a crown at having to say that, but he repeats the words. “Your ability to track a puck is absolutely amazing, and your reflexes—”

“Henke,” Alexandar says pleadingly.

“What I’m trying to say is, you might get in the position of thinking you really are hot shit. And maybe you are, today. But I’m telling you now, you’re also going to lose. More than one game, sometimes an entire string of them. And when that day comes, and it _will_ come, you’re going to need your team. You’re going to need your backup goalie. You have to be able to lean on us, just like we’ll lean on you. Because when you’re not doing well, your backup will be in net. And his job will be to keep the other team from scoring, just like it’s yours. Because at the end of the day, it’s all about the team. Winning games, climbing the standings. I know you didn’t really think before you said yes to all this. But it’s not just you out there. It’s all of us. Do you understand?”

Igor waits until Alexandar is done. Then he nods. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “Alexandar, I—” He swallows and switches to Russian. “I know you don’t want me here. Henrik’s right, I… didn’t think. About what it would mean for you, me being here.”

Alexandar doesn’t look at him, the twist of his mouth still bitter.

“I want to be here for the team,” Igor continues. “For you, and Henrik. I want to help the team win. It’s not for me—”

“It’s a little bit for you,” Alexandar interrupts, and Henrik gives him a warning look at his tone.

“Of course it is,” Igor says. Alexandar’s looking at him now, his eyes still angry, but at least he’s meeting Igor’s gaze. “You saying you’re _only_ here for the team and not for yourself?”

Alexandar scowls and doesn’t reply.

“You don’t have to be my friend,” Igor says softly, holding his eyes. “But can you be on the same team with me?”

It feels like about a million years goes by before Alexandar’s grudging nod. Igor lets out a breath.

“Alright,” he says, and glances at Henrik, who lifts an eyebrow. Igor nods.

“Sasha, do you want some breakfast?” Henrik asks. “Igor, I invited Alexandar over yesterday to work out and help each other stretch. I forgot, what with… everything.”

Igor can’t help the smile, and Alexandar looks away. His shoulders are tight but he’s not radiating fury anymore.

“I can go,” Igor offers.

“No,” Alexandar says unexpectedly, and Igor and Henrik both look at him, startled. Alexandar lifts his chin. “Henke’s right. You’re team. Stay.”

Henrik smiles and drags Alexandar into a hug, ruffling his hair. Alexandar lets it happen, a pained look on his face but the ghost of a smile lurking underneath. 

“So, breakfast, Sasha?” Henrik says when he lets him go, and Alexandar nods.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay (to the three people actually reading this), work is kicking my ass but I'm still whittling away at this when I have the braincells

Igor goes back to Chris’s place close to noon, pleasantly tired. His muscles feel like butter after the stretching and workout and then more stretching. Alexandar had helped him with his splits, and Igor thought privately he enjoyed pushing him into position and holding him there a little more than was necessary. But if it helped him work through the resentment, Igor was willing to suffer a little temporary discomfort.

Chris pounces when he walks in the door, grabbing his face in one hand and turning his head this way and that. “You didn’t  _ answer _ me,” he says, busy inspecting Igor for—what exactly is he looking for, Igor wonders, freeing himself. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Igor says, laughing at him. Whatever Chris sees in his face clearly helps settle his worries. He takes a breath and steps back.

“Sorry, I just—sorry.”

Igor pats his arm and brushes past down the hall. “Is okay. Mika here?”

“He doesn’t live here, you know,” Chris says, following him into the living room, where Mika is stretched out on the couch. “But uh, yes, he’s here.”

Igor snickers. “Leave tonight for road trip, yes? Practice this afternoon?”

Chris shakes his head. “Day off. Wanna hang out? We can do some sightseeing this afternoon if you’re up for it.”

“Sounds fun,” Igor agrees, smiling at Mika, who gives him a lazy grin in response.

“How was your night?” he asks.

Igor’s smile widens. “Was very, very good.”

“You look like the cat that caught the canary,” Chris observes.

Igor blinks. “What does this mean?”

“It’s a—never mind.” Chris shoves Mika’s feet out of the way and sits down. Mika immediately puts his feet in Chris’s lap and waves Igor into the room, pointing him to the other end of the couch. 

Igor flops on the cushions and stretches, sighing happily. When he looks up, Chris and Mika are watching him with matching expressions of amusement. 

“What?” Igor asks. Does he have something on his face?

Mika shakes his head. “Glad you had a good time, that’s all.”

“You gonna see him again?” Chris asks. 

“Da,” Igor says, wondering if Chris had hit his head recently. “Road trip tonight, is not?”

“No, I meant—” Chris gives Mika a dirty look when he snickers. “Do you think you’ll sleep with him again?”

Igor’s mouth falls open. “I can do this?” 

“Good job, babe,” Mika says, clearly fighting a laugh. 

Chris sighs. “You can do whatever you want, kid. That’s why I was asking.”

Igor considers. Sex with Henrik was undeniably excellent, and he wouldn’t mind a repeat at all, but—

“Maybe,” he finally says. 

“You really aren’t in love with him?” Chris asks. He’s rubbing Mika’s ankle absently, as if unaware he’s doing it.

Igor smiles and shakes his head. “Told you, is… puppy love? Infatuation,” he says in Russian, and Chris nods.

“A crush.”

“Da. Henrik is….” Igor gestures. “Henrik.”

Mika’s and Chris’s smiles tell him they know exactly what he means.

“Can learn so much from him,” Igor continues. “But—” His English fails him again and he lapses back into Russian. “I’m not ready to fall in love for real anyway. I have hockey to play.”

Chris translates that for Mika and they both nod.

“Probably smart,” Mika says. He digs his toes into Chris’s ribs, making him yelp. “Relationships are a lot of work.”

“Fuck you, we’re breaking up,” Chris says, but there’s no heat behind his words as he captures Mika’s foot and begins massaging it.

Mika sighs, somehow relaxing even more into the cushions. His eyes are fixed on Chris’s form, heavy-lidded and dark, and Chris catches his gaze. They watch each other for a few minutes as Chris works on Mika’s foot, and Igor watches them, feeling like he’s intruding on a private moment.

He clears his throat and stands. “Gonna… be in room. Call me when ready, yes?” He escapes before either of them can say anything.

A few minutes later, Chris’s bedroom door clicks shut across the hall and low voices drift out from behind it.

Igor grabs his earbuds and jams them in his ears. He turns on the first thing he finds and cranks it, hoping it’ll be enough.

It’s almost enough. He can hear the occasional noise—a groan, a stifled yelp, a laugh that cuts off in the middle as if it’s smothered.

Igor drops onto the bed and pulls the pillow over his head, praying for a distraction. As if it heard him, his phone buzzes. He drags it under the pillow with him, willing his hard-on away, and blinks at Alexandar’s name on his screen.

When Henrik had suggested Alexandar and Igor trade numbers that morning, Igor had never expected Alexandar to actually  _ use _ his.

He unlocks the phone and reads the text. It’s in Cyrillic, a familiarity that settles Igor’s nerves. 

_ Sorry. _

Igor stares at the screen for a long moment before answering. He starts a response, stops and deletes it, starts another, then stops again, chewing on his lip as Alexandar starts typing again.

_ Henke got after me when you left. Said I was being a child. _

_ You weren’t, _ Igor sends back immediately.  _ Of course you don’t like me, I don’t blame you. _

_ But he’s right. You’re both right. I’d do the same in your position, of course I would. _

_ We all would,  _ Igor sends. _ It’s behind us now. Playoffs are what matter.  _

_ I’ll leave you alone,  _ Alexandar sends just as Chris cries out, quickly muffled, and Igor’s flagging hard-on makes a resurgence. 

_ Please don’t,  _ he sends, fingers clumsy with haste. 

_ Aren’t you at Chris’s?  _ Alexandar asks. 

A heartbeat later, he texts again. 

_ Are he and Mika really having sex with you right there?? _

_ Oh thank god, you know,  _ Igor sends. He can hear noises that are absolutely being put away for later examination and he wonders briefly about making a run for it. 

_ That’s not a bad idea,  _ he thinks. He can wander the city on his own, far away from the  _ very  _ distracting sounds now rolling steadily from the other bedroom, as if they’ve given up on any pretense and are just going for it, hard and fast. 

Alexandar is typing but he stops when Igor sends simply,  _ Wanna play tourist with me? _

_ Yes, _ Alexandar replies. He starts typing again as Igor rolls off the bed and grabs his shoes, stuffing his feet into them hastily. He slips out the door on tiptoe but needn’t have bothered, judging by the noise level from Chris’s room. Igor rolls his eyes, stifling amusement, and locks the front door behind him with the key Chris had given him.

In the elevator, he checks his phone. There’s a text from Alexandar.

_ If you can stand being around me. _

_ Way better than the alternative right now, _ Igor points out.  _ Where should we meet? _

_ I’ll pick you up, wait outside. _

Igor lingers just inside the lobby of Chris’s building. Experience has already taught him that Rangers’ fans are sharp-eyed and, while friendly, also somewhat relentless. He fires off a quick text to Chris while he waits.

_ Going out with Alexandar. You’re disgusting. _

He pockets his phone just as Alexandar’s silver BMW rolls up outside.

Alexandar is a good driver, careful around corners and calm in the face of Manhattan traffic. He gives Igor a surprised look when Igor mentions it.

“It’s not hard,” he says. “You just have to not let it get to you. Like when you’re in net.”

Igor nods. That he understands. “Did you always want this?” he asks. It’s so  _ nice _ hearing Russian again without having to stop and translate, to think overly hard about whatever’s coming out of his mouth, let alone everyone else’s.

“Always,” Alexandar says, shifting gears. “Since I was little.”

“Dreamed of the NHL?”

“I didn’t care, really,” Alexandar admits. “KHL, NHL. As long as I was playing.”

“Do you like it here, with the team?”

“I do.” Alexandar turns a corner and somehow finds a parking spot, sliding into it neatly. “They’re good to me. I love the city, too, and the fans.” He leans across the gearshift to fumble in the glovebox, coming up with a baseball cap and pair of sunglasses that he presents to Igor, who laughs and takes them. 

“Where are we?”

“You wanted to be a tourist, we’re gonna be tourists,” Alexandar tells him, and Igor realizes this is the first time he’s seen him smile. He likes it, he decides, likes it a lot, the way the grin lights his dark brown eyes and makes a dimple flash in his cheek.

“Let’s do it, then,” Igor says, and steps out of the car.

They spend the afternoon wandering and seeing the sights. They get recognized once or twice by sharp-eyed fans, but escape fairly easily after the occasional posing and signing session.

Alexandar buys them food from a truck and they eat gyros in Times Square. Neither of them feels the need to talk very much, so they mostly sit in silence and enjoy their meal. 

Igor’s phone buzzes after about an hour and he pulls it out. He snorts at the message.

_ Can’t handle a little sex noise? Weak. Be back by three. _

Alexandar raises an eyebrow.

“Chris,” Igor explains. “Seems to think I’m ‘weak’ because I don’t want to hear them having sex.”

Alexandar’s lips twitch. “They’re relentless,” he agrees, and takes another bite. “Can’t keep their damn hands off each other, unless they’re fooling around with someone else on the team.”

“They do that a lot?”

Alexandar lifts a shoulder. “Not a  _ lot, _ I’d say. Sometimes. They prefer to both be there if sex happens, which I get.”

“Did it… happen with you?” Igor asks carefully.

Alexandar takes another bite, chewing pointedly.

“Fine, sorry,” Igor says, kicking the ground.

Alexandar almost laughs. “Yeah it did,” he says.

“Wait, really?”

“Well yeah. They offered, and I mean, you’ve seen them. That was my welcome to the team.”

“Not Henrik?”

“I thought about it,” Alexandar admits. “But no. I thought it might be better to keep that relationship professional, you know? With Chris and Mika, they’re so focused on each other, there’s no real danger of falling in love with either of them. So it was fun, and we play better together now, I think. What about you and Henke?”

“I swear to God I’m not in love with him,” Igor says, exasperated, and Alexandar actually laughs, taking Igor’s breath away. His dimples flash in full force, eyes lighting up behind his sunglasses, and Igor forgets briefly what he was about to say. “Uh. I mean. No, I’m not—it’s not like that. I asked for him because….” He shrugs. “It’s Henrik. But there was no deeper motive there.”

“Fair enough.” Alexandar balls his gyro wrapping up and tosses it into the trash. “Ready to keep going?”

They spend several more hours wandering and by the time Alexandar—“Call me Sasha”—drops him off back at Chris’s house, Igor’s faintly sunburned and pleasantly tired from their day. He gives Sasha a smile when he parks the car.

“Thanks,” he says. “This was… nice.”

Sasha’s lips twitch. “I know, I was surprised too.”

Igor huffs a laugh and shoves his shoulder lightly. “See you on the plane.”

He’s starting in net, Quinn tells him on the plane. Sasha will take the other leg of the back-to-back to keep Igor from getting worn out.

Igor is getting used to the nerves by now, but that doesn’t mean they’re going away. He lets the butterflies swirl in his stomach on the way to the rink, focusing on his hands in his lap.  _ At least they’re not shaking this time,  _ he thinks distantly. 

Sasha’s getting into his gear on the other side of the room, eyes focused on a speck on the wall. He glances up as Igor comes in and a smile flickers across his full lips, there and gone again. Igor almost manages a smile in return, but then his stomach lurches and he has to devote his attention to not throwing up. 

Sasha looks sympathetic when Igor glances up again, but he says nothing. The silent support is somehow exactly what Igor needs. He changes into his pads and tugs his jersey on over his head. 

He can do this. He won’t let them down. 

They lose. 

It’s not a resounding loss. 2-1, a hard-fought battle that just barely favored the Jackets off a lucky bounce no one could have seen coming. Maybe at some point that will console him. But staring at the players leaving the ice, all Igor can think is he’s failed.

He’s going to be sent down again, thanked for his troubles and pushed out of sight.

It’s what he deserves, he thinks numbly as he makes his way down the tunnel and into the dressing room.

No one’s saying much as they cool down, shower, and deal with the media. Igor takes dim comfort in his English being too terrible to really make a good interview—he’s asked a few questions, but Anya’s not here and no one else offers to translate, and the reporters quickly give him up to move on to easier targets.

Sasha sits beside him after they’ve left him, still half in his gear. “I would have helped,” he says in Russian. “But I thought… better if I didn’t. They left you alone faster this way.”

Igor swallows around the lump in his throat and nods silently, bending to unbuckle his pads.

Henrik stops by his stall and squeezes his shoulder.

“It happens to everyone,” he says, voice quiet.

Igor knows this. He’s lost games before, he’s not stupid, and he doesn’t want to be condescended to. He tries to pull away but Henrik tightens his grip.

“This doesn’t mean you’re leaving us,” he says, and tilts Igor’s chin up when he would have ducked his head. His eyes are fierce but warm. Beside Igor, Sasha leans against him briefly, letting him feel his weight. “Team, remember?” Henrik says. “You fought hard out there. We all saw it. Don’t let it eat at you or you won’t be able to function.”

Sasha translates that quickly and Igor swallows again and nods. This time when he pulls away, Henrik lets him go.

“Get some rest,” he says. 

Apparently Igor and Sasha are rooming together, Igor discovers when they get to the hotel. Sasha follows him to the door, giving him an apologetic look.

The energy of the game has dissipated, leaving Igor feeling like a lump of wet tissue. He can’t figure out how to reassure Sasha he’s fine being in the same room, so instead he drops his bag in the hall and goes to the bathroom to wash his face.

When he emerges, Sasha is stretched out on his bed in comfortable clothes, flicking idly through TV channels. “Hungry?” he asks, and indicates a menu on Igor’s bed.

Loss or not, Igor’s young and plays a physically demanding game. He’s pretty much always hungry. He sits cross-legged on the bed and orders steaks and fries for them both.

They eat in silence, Igor paying very little attention to anything but his food, and when they’re done, they set their plates outside and return to their beds. 

Igor curls up on his side and watches as Sasha moves around the room, picking up the clothes he’d changed out of and putting them away. 

_ This is nice, _ Igor thinks drowsily. Sasha doesn’t demand conversation, doesn’t make him dissect his feelings and talk about them. He’s silent but it’s not cold, not the punishing freeze-out of before. Igor can almost forget the stinging shame of letting that second puck past him, the hot rush of guilt that wants to swallow him whole.

Sasha flicks the lights off and Igor listens to him crawling under the covers, the rustling as he gets comfortable.

“Goodnight,” Sasha says quietly, and Igor falls asleep to the soft, steady sound of his breathing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, I'm not dead! Sorry for the delay, I've got three projects going right now, plus work and this whole pesky coronavirus thing. Please make sure you're washing your hands and practicing social distancing, my lovelies!

It’s Sasha’s turn between the pipes the next day, Igor’s turn to get suited up and sit on the bench to watch.

It’s not where he wants to be, but he forces himself to stillness, watching everything Sasha does as play swirls around him. He’s good, and the thought is not as grudging as it might have been in the past. His angles are sharp and clean, and he can track the puck through traffic like a homing beacon, finding it unerringly almost every time.

Igor pushes away the jealousy. Sasha doesn’t deserve that. What he deserves is his own moment to shine, and that’s what he gets as Mika and then Artemi and then Pavel each hammer home a blistering goal and Sasha blocks every attempt on net in his end.

The buzzer sounds at the end of the third period and they all pour onto the ice in a froth of delight, swarming Sasha. As backup, Igor is almost last in line, giving him plenty of time to watch the way Sasha smiles so brilliantly, his usual shy expression wiped away and pure, clean happiness taking its place. The last of Igor’s jealousy evaporates and by the time he reaches Sasha, his own smile is wide and genuine. He cups Sasha’s head briefly, pressing their foreheads together, and Sasha beams at him from behind his mask, brown eyes sparkling.

They go out after, Sasha crammed in the back of the crowded booth right up against Igor as everyone plies him with alcohol and makes much of him.

It’s noisy and stifling and overwhelming, but Igor can feel Sasha pressed along his side from knee to hip, every flicker of movement, and he’s less restless than he expected. 

Chris, on his other side, wraps one long arm around Igor’s neck and pulls him into a sideways hug. “How’re you feeling?” he yells over the music.

Igor pokes him in the ribs and wriggles free, straightening his shirt with as much dignity as possible. “It’s Sasha’s night,” he says. “Don’t worry about me.”

One mobile eyebrow goes up. “Sasha, is it? On a nickname basis now?”

Igor shrugs. Sasha thankfully isn’t listening, talking to Artemi on his other side. “He’s not so bad.” 

“Maybe he’ll pick you, then,” Chris says, eyes gleaming wickedly in the dim light.

“Pick me for what?” 

Chris looks briefly startled. “No one told you?”

“Told me  _ what?” _ Igor asks, irritated.

“If you post a shutout or get first star, you have your choice of the locker room. Well, the willing participants, anyway. Some of the married men don’t join in.”

Igor stares at him, mind spinning. The thought of Sasha asking for him has a startling appeal. He suddenly wants to be chosen, wants Sasha to hold out a hand to him with purpose in those dark eyes.

Chris tilts an eyebrow again. “Make sure he knows you’re not opposed,” he says, and takes a swig of beer.

Sasha nudges him and Igor jumps. Sasha looks startled.

“Sorry,” he says. “Can you move? I need to piss.”

Everyone in the booth obligingly reshuffles, dislodging bodies so Igor and then Sasha can slide out. Sasha nods and heads straight for the bathroom, and Igor stands still, wrestling with himself.

“Be right back,” he finally says to no one in particular, and sets off after him.

Sasha’s washing his hands when Igor slips inside and he glances up, a smile warming the angles of his face.

Igor closes the door and leans against it. His heart’s in his throat, for some reason. “You, uh—” He stops and swallows. “Are you going to choose someone from the team?” He’s going for ‘casually interested’ but judging from the arch of Sasha’s brow, he’s missed by a mile.

“Probably,” Sasha says, turning to dry his hands. “First NHL shutout, I should celebrate. Why?”

“Who… uh, who are you gonna pick?” Igor asks, fidgeting in place. He shoves his hands in his pockets and affects disinterest.

“Haven’t decided.” Sasha turns back to face him. “Are you offering?”

Igor swallows hard and lifts one shoulder. “If—I mean… you want. I’d—I guess I’d be okay with it.”

Sasha inspects him, a long, slow rake of his eyes up and down Igor’s body, his gaze an almost physical touch, and Igor can’t stop the shiver.

“No,” Sasha says, and Igor is brought back to earth with a thump.

“What?”

“I said no,” Sasha says. “Thanks, but I’m not interested.” He tilts his head. “That’s okay, right?”

Igor can’t really summon words. He nods silently, and Sasha smiles at him.

“I knew you’d understand.” He pats him on the shoulder and Igor stops the flinch just in time as Sasha slips past him out the door.

Alone, Igor stares at the tiled floor for a minute. That had hurt more than he’d expected. Not that he considered himself irresistible, but he’d thought they had a connection, before. 

He goes back out to the table just in time to see Artemi and Sasha leaving. Sasha smiles at Igor, bright and uncomplicated, and follows Artemi out the door. Igor somehow manages to return an approximation of the smile and slides back into the booth next to Chris, who drapes an absent arm over his shoulders without pausing in his conversation with Mika.

The night gets worse from there. The music is giving him a headache, the flashing lights making Igor squeeze his eyes shut and will the nausea back. Finally, he can’t take it anymore and he slides from the booth.

“See you at the hotel,” he tells Chris, who flaps a hand at him.

But he’s locked out of their room, Igor discovers in horrified disbelief when he tries the handle. The safety locks have been thrown and there’s enough noise coming from inside that the occupants probably haven’t even heard him.

Igor stares at the door, weighing his options. He’s  _ not _ barging in, but he doesn’t want to stand in the hallway all night, either. 

He heads back downstairs to the front desk and somehow manages to convey to the front desk clerk that he needs a room.

The tired-looking girl informs him that they’re fully booked, that she’s so sorry but she doesn’t have room for him anywhere, and Igor turns to go back upstairs, defeated. Maybe Henrik’s still awake.

“Shesty!” It’s Chris, followed by Mika in the front doors. “What are you doing down here?”

“Sasha is—” Igor makes a vague gesture. “In my room.”

Chris’s eyebrows wing upward. “You got sexiled? That’s rough.” He glances at Mika, who nods as if Chris said something. “Come on,” Chris says. “You can bunk with us.”

Igor follows them upstairs to their room, on the verge of protesting the whole way. He doesn’t want to spend the night with them—he wants to sleep in the same room with Sasha, to find that quiet peace he’d had the night before. But his room is still locked when they pass it, faint noises coming from inside, and Chris snickers.

Mika elbows him and says something in Swedish as they reach their door and he pulls out the key. Chris glances at Igor, at his hunched shoulders and ducked head, and puts a hand on his arm.

“Hey,” he says. “This is really bothering you?”

“No,” Igor says automatically. Chris clearly doesn’t believe him, pulling him into the room as Mika pushes the door wide. “I just… I’m tired. I wanna sleep.”

Chris points to the far bed. “Help yourself. You can borrow some clothes and I’ll call down for a toothbrush for you.”

“Thank you,” Igor mumbles, ducking his head again. At least they’re far enough down the hall that they can’t hear Sasha and Artemi, but his traitorous brain is supplying images and it’s getting distracting, fast. He doesn’t want to think about Artemi making Sasha moan, his head thrown back and eyes closed as Artemi sucks marks down his throat.

He takes the clothes Mika hands him and changes into them, tugging the drawstrings so the soft pants actually stay up, brushes his teeth with the toothbrush Chris gives him. Then he gets into the bed that clearly hasn’t been used and watches Chris and Mika maneuver around each other getting ready for sleep. Mika rests a hand on the small of Chris’s back as Chris brushes his teeth, talking to him in a low tone as Chris nods. They’re so comfortable and easy together it makes something ache in Igor’s chest, and he rolls over to face the wall.

He wants to be angry that Sasha shut him down so decisively, but there’s only a dull hurt under his breastbone that makes drawing a deep breath difficult. It’s  _ stupid, _ he knows that. Just last month, Sasha hated him. He’d made the right decision, saying no. Better not to risk the still tenuous friendship that was forming between them.

Someone flicks off the light and the other bed creaks.

“Goodnight,” Mika calls softly, and Igor makes a quiet noise of acknowledgment but doesn’t turn over.

Back in New York, they get a day off and then Igor’s back in net. Quinn hasn’t said anything about his loss, no threats of sending him back down or letting Sasha and Henrik shoulder the load, but Igor is more determined than ever to make a good showing. He tunes out the noise of the locker room, letting it fade into the background as he stretches, thinking about nothing but the feeling of his muscles getting warm and loose.

Sasha’s waiting by the door when Igor gets up and heads for the tunnel. He doesn’t say anything, but he holds out a fist, his brown eyes steady. Igor bumps the fist with his own and one corner of Sasha’s mouth tucks up into something like a smile.

He feels good when he takes the ice, steady and focused. Play swirls around him, a maelstrom of color and noise, and Igor lets everything fall away, his existence narrowing down to a single function. Stop the puck.

And he does, over and over and over again, until the home crowd is chanting for him in unison, over twenty thousand people shouting his name.  _ Igor! Igor! Igor! _

Igor barely hears them. He is bright, shining purpose, body moving on instinct faster than thought. Somehow he can see the plays before they happen, knows which way a player’s going to shoot and when he’s going to pass, and he’s there every time, knocking each puck away or trapping it for the whistle.

He feels lit from within, a fierce joy welling deep inside him.  _ This _ is what he’s meant to do. This is all he  _ wants _ to do, for the rest of his life.

He gets his first shutout and Chris lifts him right off his skates, screaming in his face as Igor throws his head back and laughs and laughs, clinging to Chris as the crowd roars and the rest of the team swarms them. 

Sasha fights his way through the crowd. He’s dropped his glove and blocker somewhere, and he reaches out to grab Igor’s helmet in both hands. His eyes are fierce with delight, and he’s smiling wider than Igor’s ever seen, yelling something in Russian. Igor can’t help but grin back at him, still fizzing with joy, and Sasha presses his forehead to Igor’s helmet before letting him go so he can salute the crowd.

In the dressing room, done with showers and media and Quinn’s congratulatory speeches, Henrik stops by Igor’s stall. “Good job, kiddo,” he says, and Igor beams up at him. “Did you want—” He raises his eyebrows and Igor considers, briefly tempted, but finally he shakes his head, still smiling at him. Henrik smiles back, affection and understanding in his eyes, as Mika flops into the stall beside Igor.

He wraps an arm around Igor’s neck and Igor laughs again as Mika tugs him close.

“You were amazing,” he says, and Igor ducks his head, his smile growing. Mika smells incredible, freshly bathed and his damp hair falling in tangles around his face. “Your first shutout, you know what that means. Who’s it gonna be?”

Igor doesn’t look across the room, doesn’t lock eyes with Sasha, but he knows somehow that he’s watching, listening to the conversation. Instead he glances up at Chris, never far from Mika, and then at Mika.

“Is it okay if… you?” he asks carefully.

“As in both of us?” Chris asks in Russian, and Igor nods immediately.

“Da, both. Yes?”

Mika’s smile is slow and sweet, spreading from ear to ear, and Igor can feel a blush crawling up his throat, hunger tightening his gut. If he can’t have Sasha, maybe he can at least forget about him in style. 

He doesn’t look at him as Chris and Mika tow him out of the dressing room.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating changes in this chapter, and _how_. You’ve been warned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Wear your seatbelt, kids)

Mika drives, which leaves Chris free to pull Igor into his lap in the back seat. Igor protests laughingly but Chris ignores him, settling him across his thighs and dragging him down into a kiss.

His mouth is hot and forceful, his lips soft, and Igor melts into it, wrapping his arms around Chris’s neck and sinking down. Chris groans against his mouth, hands tightening on Igor’s thighs, and Mika swears from the front.

He says something but it’s too fast for Igor to follow, brain fogged with lust as it is. Chris mumbles something in response and attacks Igor’s neck, cupping the base of his skull and tilting his head sideways to suck a proper livid mark into the skin.

Igor makes a noise and rocks his hips, and Mika takes the corner too fast, throwing them against the door. Chris rights them, laughing breathlessly.

“Slow the fuck down before you kill us all, Zee,” he calls, and Mika growls something under his breath but eases up slightly.

Igor grins down at Chris and resettles himself. He can’t resist grinding down just briefly, and Chris gasps, eyes fluttering closed.

Some part of Igor is glad the windows are tinted enough that they can’t be seen. The rest of him is occupied by Chris’s hands, huge and clever and roaming all over him like Chris is trying to map out every inch of him. He slips one beneath Igor’s waistband and Igor stretches to give him room to explore. For his part, he’s busy getting his own hands under Chris’s shirt, tugging it out of his pants so he can trace the curve of his ribs.

Chris twitches and squirms and Igor runs a thumb up his navel, dragging through the soft hair and up to his pec. His skin is as soft as it looks.  _ I wonder how soft Sasha’s skin is. _ Igor shakes his head, banishing the thought, and shoves Chris’s shirt up to his armpits. He bends and licks a stripe over his pectoral. Chris’s skin is smooth and doesn’t taste like much of anything, but the noise he makes is gratifying, as a hand comes up to cup the back of Igor’s head.

The car jerks to a stop and Mika’s wrenching the door open and climbing in before Igor fully registers that they’re in Chris’s underground garage. Mika grabs Igor’s head and pulls him into a bruising kiss, mouth punishingly hot and devouring.

Igor kisses back, still straddling Chris’s hips. His head is spinning and Chris is leaning up to kiss along his neck and all Igor can think is  _ more, more.  _

Somehow they make it out of the car and upstairs without being seen. Chris puts Igor on the far side of the elevator and he and Mika watch him as the car goes up. Mika’s draped across Chris in that way he has, the unconscious claiming of his territory by touching as much of him as possible, but his eyes are hooded and dark, fixed on Igor as he chews his lip. Chris has an arm around Mika’s waist, absent like he doesn’t even realize they’re still nominally in public, or maybe they’re just both beyond caring. 

Igor adjusts himself and their eyes go darker. He has the unsettling feeling of being  _ prey _ suddenly. Chris takes a breath, about to say something, and the elevator dings softly. 

Inside the apartment, they drag him down the hall to the living room and Igor finds himself deposited on the couch. Mika sinks to his knees in front of him and Igor forgets how to breathe. Mika smiles up at him and reaches for the waistband of Igor’s pants as Chris slides onto the couch beside him. 

It takes some fumbling and swearing, but the pants come off somehow and Mika is lowering his head to blow warm air over the head of his cock. Igor jams a fist in his mouth to muffle the noise but Chris grabs his wrist, tugging it down. 

“He likes noise,” he says. “He likes knowing he’s making you feel good.”

Mika rolls a condom into place and then his mouth closes over him and Igor shouts at the slick hot slide, his spine bowing. Chris croons to him, leaning in to mouth along Igor’s jaw. He seems to realize Igor’s not able to concentrate so he doesn’t try to kiss him on the lips, instead cupping his face in one big hand and working his way down Igor’s throat. 

Igor can’t breathe through the sensations rushing through him, Mika’s mouth so hot and wet, fist curled around the base of Igor’s cock, and he struggles to focus on other things. The pad of Chris’s thumb, swiping softly over his pulse point. The bunch and slide of the muscles in Mika’s forearm as he jacks Igor rhythmically. Chris’s breath, warm and a little ragged in his ear. 

The pleasure builds, Mika driving him closer with every curl of his tongue, every sweep of his hand, until Igor is clutching blindly at Chris, shaking all over with the effort of holding back. 

“Please,” he begs, not really sure what he’s asking for. Permission, maybe. 

Mika pushes his thighs apart and takes him deep, and Igor arches up off the cushions as his orgasm takes him, blinding bliss overwhelming his senses, the world whiting out in a roar. 

When he blinks back into his body, neither Chris nor Mika have moved except to lean forward over Igor’s limp form so they can kiss. Igor watches, come-stupid and suddenly exhausted, as Mika tips Chris’s head back, cups his jaw to hold him in place, and plunders his mouth. Chris’s eyes are closed, his expression somehow hungry but peaceful, like he  _ wants  _ but he knows he’ll get what he needs if he can just be patient. 

Igor loses track of time, drifting in a post-orgasmic high, until Mika pulls away, murmuring something too low for Igor to catch. Whatever it is, it makes Chris’s lips curve, soft and breathtakingly sweet, and then he’s turning his head and they’re both looking at Igor, their temples pressed together. 

“Hey,” Chris says. “You wanna watch?”

Igor’s mouth is suddenly desert-dry. He swallows with difficulty and nods. 

It takes a few minutes for them to decide on a position and get situated, but eventually all clothes are shed and Chris is kneeling on the floor between Igor’s knees, Mika behind him. Like this, Igor can’t see what Mika’s doing, but he can see every micro-expression that flashes across Chris’s mobile face. Someone’s come up with a half-used bottle of lube that was stashed between the cushions of the couch, and Chris has his elbows braced on either side of Igor’s hips, rocking down onto Mika’s hand as he opens him up. His eyes are closed, head tipped back and lips parted. The delicate blue tracery of his veins is stark against his eyelids, and Igor is entranced.

He can’t help touching the line of Chris’s sharp jaw, and Chris turns his face into Igor’s hand, sighing. Mika leans forward and presses a kiss to his shoulder blade.

“Ready, baby?” he murmurs.

Chris nods, eyes still closed. His mouth falls open on a moan as Mika pushes in, head falling forward as his body goes taut as a bowstring. Mika doesn’t go slow. He slides deep in one smooth motion and folds forward over Chris’s back, grabbing his head and wrenching it around so he can slam their mouths together.

Chris sobs into the kiss, scrabbling at the cushions for leverage. Igor grabs his hands and braces him, holding him steady as Mika pounds into him, sharp, staccato thrusts that slam Chris into Igor’s midsection with every pass. Igor’s already getting hard again, but he doesn’t try to touch himself, too busy holding Chris in place.

“If you can wait, you can fuck him too,” Mika says, lifting his head. He’s only a little breathless, voice somehow measured. His fingers are digging into Chris’s hips hard enough to bruise. Chris’s head droops, little  _ uh uh _ noises punched from him every time Mika bottoms out.

_ Fuck. _

“Do he—” Igor hesitates, English failing him.

Mika raises an eyebrow. “Ask him.”

Igor frees one hand and tips Chris’s chin up. “Chris,” he says.

Mika hasn’t stopped moving, and Chris blinks his eyes open slowly, awareness seeping in. He smiles when he meets Igor’s gaze.

“Hey,” he slurs. 

“You want me to fuck you?” Igor asks in Russian.

Chris’s brow furrows. Mika tilts his hips and changes his angle, and Chris cries out, grabbing at Igor’s hands again.

“Fucking—Zee,  _ stop _ a second, I can’t think—”

Mika’s laugh is breathless but he stops obediently. He bends to plant kisses down Chris’s spine and Chris arches into it with a sigh.

“You asked—what’d you ask me?” he says, eyes closed.

“Mika said I could fuck you,” Igor says. “Do you want that?”

“Oh  _ God _ yeah,” Chris gasps, and Mika begins to move again. 

Nearly all of Chris’s weight is draped across Igor’s thighs now, face pressed to his ribs. His breath is hot on Igor’s skin, unsteady panting as Mika speeds up, rhythm stuttering. He groans when he comes, eyes squeezed shut and hips jerking. Igor pets Chris’s hair as Mika comes down and finally slides out, pressing one last kiss to Chris’s shoulder.

He holds out another condom and Igor takes it, hands clumsy with need. Chris is mouthing absently along his abs, still heavy in his lap, and Igor has to ease him sideways enough to get the condom in place.

Mika helps, taking Chris by the shoulders and lifting him up and off. He lowers him to the floor and Chris sprawls out in a scatter of long, pale limbs. Mika goes down with him and Igor stops to watch them a minute. Mika’s propped on his elbow over Chris’s body, and he runs a hand down his belly to his erection, dark red and leaking slow and thick.

“That looks like it hurts,” Mika murmurs, tone conversational, and flicks the tip with his fingernail. Chris shouts, spasming forward, and Mika pushes him flat again. “You want some help with that, baby?”

“Please,” Chris whimpers, turning his face into Mika’s shoulder. 

Mika catches Igor’s eye and jerks his chin. Igor gets the hint and slides off the couch onto his knees between Chris’s splayed thighs. 

“Don’t tease him, he’s too close,” Mika says. 

Igor nods, English gone, and takes hold of himself. Chris’s hole is leaking Mika’s come, slick and red and open, but Mika hands him the lube anyway.

Chris sighs when Igor slides in, his whole body relaxing.

“There you go,” Mika murmurs, kissing his jaw. “Look at you, sweetheart. My beautiful love. You take it so well.”

He’s hot, furnace hot, a silken vise gripping Igor’s cock, and Igor falls forward onto his hands, struggling to breathe. Mika is still whispering to Chris, who tilts his face up for a kiss, as Igor begins to move.

They’re beautiful, the trust and love that flows between them, the unspoken communication that’s so easy like breathing, and Igor feels suddenly like an intruder. He understands what Sasha meant by there being no danger of falling in love with either of them, and then he’s swamped with mental images of them doing this with Sasha.

He wants to ask.  _ Did you fuck him? Did he fuck you? Did he make noise when he came?  _ He keeps the words locked behind his teeth, pounding deep and tilting Chris’s hips up so he can hit that spot inside him, the one that makes him twist and sob, begging in a choked voice, but he doesn’t touch himself, clutching blindly at Mika instead.

Igor closes his eyes. There. He’s fucking Sasha now, it’s Sasha writhing beneath him, clenching hot around him, saying his name like a benediction.

His orgasm slams into the base of his spine, wrenching out of him with such force he feels turned inside out. He barely manages to stay upright as it shakes through him and Mika gets a hand on Chris’s cock. Chris is coming before Mika gets a full stroke in, suddenly, viciously tight around Igor’s cock as he spills in helpless spurts and Igor hisses, over-sensitive. But he stays where he is and Mika rewards him with a smile when he finally takes his hand away and Chris collapses back to the floor.

Igor slides out and Mika catches his wrist. He tugs him into a gentle kiss, soft and warm.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Okay?”

Igor nods dumbly. He wants to cry, for some idiotic reason. Exhaustion and overstimulation finally catching up to him, probably. “Thank you,” he manages through a suddenly tight throat. “I’m shower now, yes?”

Mika releases him. “Can you do it on your own?”

“Da.” Igor levers himself to his feet. His legs are shaky but he’s upright. “I—thank you,” he repeats, and stumbles for his room.

Somehow he makes it through a shower without collapsing. He dries off but forgoes clothes, crawling naked under the covers. He’s wrung out, so worn through emotionally and physically he thinks he might be see-through, transparent. He wants arms around him, a warm body pressed up against his. He knows Chris and Mika would welcome him to their bed if he asked, would hold him with no expectations, but it’s not what Igor truly wants. They’re not  _ who _ Igor wants.

He buries his face in the pillow and falls asleep with his arms wrapped around his ribs.


	6. Chapter 6

He wakes up to a text from Sasha. Igor knuckles sleep from his eyes and tries to focus enough to read it. 

_ Lunch w/me after practice? _

Igor stretches, groaning in relief as his back pops. Does he want to have lunch with Sasha?

The answer is of course he does. 

The real question is,  _ can  _ he have lunch with Sasha and pretend he didn’t feel anything when he was rejected, pretend he doesn’t want more than Sasha wants to give?

Igor thinks about it for a minute. Would it be easier to distance himself, keep a metaphorical arm’s length between them to protect himself?

It would be safer, he thinks, but also not really feasible. They play together, work too closely for Igor to truly separate himself. 

Besides, he  _ wants  _ to see Sasha. He wants to eat lunch with him and explore more of the city and talk about hockey and their chances of making the playoffs. He wants to make him smile and watch those dimples appear, and laugh at his sneaky humor.

He’s taking too long to decide. Another text pops up as he’s deliberating. 

_ Sorry, forget it.  _

_ No!  _ Igor sends back.  _ Just woke up, sorry. Lunch sounds good.  _

There, it’s done. 

And… it’s good, he discovers to his surprise. Sasha is friendly and open and funny, telling Igor stories and dragging him all over the city to eat at various delicious restaurants he’s discovered. It’s like nothing has happened, Igor never offered and Sasha never turned him down. 

They go on more road trips, Igor and Sasha usually taking the net, but Henrik stepping in as needed, like when Igor injures his ankle and then later, Sasha pulls a groin muscle. 

Igor goes to Sasha’s house after that, to find Sasha sulking on the couch, an ice pack pressed to his groin and forming a damp patch on his pants. 

“You’ll be back soon,” Igor tells him, but Sasha just mutters something under his breath. Igor gets it. He hates empty platitudes too.

They spend the day playing video games. Igor orders them food and they put on a movie while they eat, to help Igor practice his English. He’s mouthing words of dialogue, reading the subtitles and trying to puzzle out the bigger words, when he catches sight of Sasha out of the corner of his eye, watching him with something like amusement on his face.

Igor throws a pillow at him and Sasha ducks it, laughing.

“You’re learning fast,” he says when he sits back upright. “You’ll be able to hold an interview in English in no time.”

Igor’s lip curls involuntarily, and Sasha laughs again.

“Poor little rookie sensation,” he teases, and Igor flings another pillow, following it up by pouncing on him to shove the pillow into his face as Sasha laughingly tries to fend him off.

Igor’s abruptly aware that he’s nearly straddling Sasha’s hips and jerks back. “Sorry,” he stutters, hoping Sasha can’t see his blush. 

In response, Sasha pokes him in the ribs, making Igor squawk and jackknife away, but just like that, the awkwardness is gone again and they settle back to watch the rest of the movie.

Sasha heals quickly, and in the meantime, Igor gets to enjoy how he looks in a suit every gameday, broad shoulders and trim hips and long, long legs. He keeps the appreciation to himself, though, staying strictly professional. It’s not that difficult, he tells himself—he’s got Chris and Mika, games and practice, video review and more practice, interviews in simple English, and community outreach. His days are scheduled down to the minute sometimes, and Igor throws himself into it willingly. He doesn’t have  _ time  _ to think about the way Sasha lights up when he smiles, how he tucks his tongue into his cheek when he’s making a joke or how he laughs with his whole body when he finds something  _ really  _ funny. 

They’re climbing the standings, point by hard-earned point, clawing their way up game by bloody game. They’re within a wildcard position if they just keep winning, and Igor wants that, wants it more than anything except, maybe, to know what Sasha tastes like.

There are three games left in the regular season. They have to win two to get locked in. Igor takes the first game and the Rangers win 4-2. 

They lose the second game, with Sasha between the pipes. It’s a hard-fought battle, but the Bluejackets tip one in to pull ahead just before the final buzzer.

Last game, last chance for a playoff berth. Sasha stops in front of Igor in his stall and Igor looks up. Sasha looks unhappy but determined.

“Win it for us,” he says.

“I will,” Igor says. It’s reckless and stupid, promising something he’s not sure he can deliver, but he’d do more to get that expression off Sasha’s face.

Sasha nods and goes back to his stall to get dressed.

He doesn’t get a shutout but it’s close. He only lets one in, early in the first period. When he looks at the bench, Sasha is watching him, no emotion visible, but he nods and Igor squares his shoulders and takes a breath. He can do this. Sasha believes in him.

Buch scores, then Fox, then Chris off Mika’s pass. The crowd is invigorated, chanting their names and singing the goal song, and the energy transfers to the players. They win the game 5-1 on a euphoric wave of screams from eighty thousand people.

“We’re going out!” Chris announces over the noise of the locker room. “We’re in the fucking  _ playoffs, _ baby! Igor, you pick where we go, you won this one for us.”

_ It was a group effort, _ Igor wants to protest, but he’s too happy and wrung out from the game to remember the words in English. He shrugs instead, grinning at Chris, who beams back at him.

“I don’t care,” he says. “Sasha, you choose?”

They end up in a bar known for its discretion and excellent liquor, crammed into several booths in the far end close to the dance floor. Igor is squeezed into what feels like about six inches of available room, Sasha on his left and Mika on his right, one arm around Chris’s shoulder on the other side. Sasha grins at him from an inch away.

“Playoff clinching rookie sensation,” he teases in Russian, and Igor huffs a laugh and pushes his arm. “Let’s get smashed, show me what you got!”

They trade shots for the next hour, until Igor is loose and happy and relaxed, slouched against Sasha’s side watching Fox and Lindgren practicing their moves on the dance floor. The alcohol burns bright through his system, making him feel like he’s on fire and possibly floating a foot or so above the booth.

He agrees to another round of shots happily but stops Sasha when he moves to lick his own hand. He grips Sasha’s wrist and Sasha goes still, eyes dark as Igor pulls his hand to his mouth and licks the salt off.

Buch whoops, making Sasha twitch and jerk back. Igor lets him go, grinning at him, and holds out his own salt-covered hand with a challenge in his eyes.

He’s counting on Sasha’s competitiveness to keep him from backing down, and he’s rewarded by Sasha’s eyes narrowing as he reaches for Igor’s wrist.

His tongue is wet and warm and Igor can’t help the shiver as Sasha drags it across his skin.

Artemi pounds on the table, grinning like a lunatic, and they startle apart as everyone hoots and claps. Igor’s head is spinning but he manages a half-bow from the waist, making the table laugh. 

The hours blur together. Igor gets dragged out on the dance floor by Mika, who’s then replaced by Chris. 

“Doing okay, kid?” Chris asks under the thump and rattle of the music.

Igor smiles brilliantly at him. “Playoffs!”

“Fuck yeah, playoffs!” Chris spins and then dips him, making Igor squawk inelegantly and scrabble at Chris’s shoulders to keep from falling.

They’re laughing when they straighten and stumble back to the table. Sasha greets Igor with a smile but he slides off the bench. 

“Bedtime,” he says. 

Chris wraps an arm around Sasha’s shoulders. “Georgie, be a pal and take Igor home for us? Zee and I are gonna stay a little longer, but this kid’s out.”

“‘M fine,” Igor protests, but he’s swaying and since when does Chris have a twin? He blinks muzzily and both Chrises laugh.

“You’re really not fine, bud,” he says, and cocks an expectant eyebrow at Sasha, who nods.

“It’s on the way to my place anyway,” he says. “I’ll make sure he’s tucked in safe.”

Igor follows Sasha out of the club, complaining. “‘S is dumb,” he says as Sasha hails a cab and bundles him inside. “Y’re drunk too. Why—”

“Because I can hold my liquor better, I guess,” Sasha says. His eyes are warm in the dimly lit car, passing streetlights illuminating his cheekbones in brief flashes. He’s so beautiful it makes Igor’s chest hurt. 

“I wish you wanted me,” he slurs, and squirms into a comfortable position as Sasha takes a startled breath.

“Igor,” he says. Igor’s eyelids are heavy so he doesn’t bother opening his eyes. Sasha pokes his arm. “Igor,” he repeats.

“No,” Igor mumbles. “Sleeping. Le’ me ‘lone.”

“You said—what did you just say, Igor? Please.”

Igor sighs loudly and opens his eyes. “I said ‘m sleeping.”

“No.” Sasha’s closer, suddenly. Igor blinks, trying to focus. “Before that. What did you say?”

Igor thinks about it. He can’t remember and his head is heavy. He closes his eyes again and Sasha shakes his arm.

Igor moans in protest.

“You said,” Sasha says as Igor pries one eye open. “You said… ‘I wish you wanted me.’”

“Well if you knew,” Igor says reasonably, “why’d you ask?”

Sasha sits back and clutches his hair, swearing under his breath. Igor takes advantage of the reprieve to get comfortable again, this time tipping over until he’s sideways on the bench, head pillowed on Sasha’s firm thigh.

“I do, though,” he mumbles, rubbing his cheek against Sasha’s leg. “Wish you… wanted me. Like I want you.”

Sasha takes an unsteady breath and strokes Igor’s hair off his forehead, his fingers cool and soft. “We are both way too drunk for this conversation,” he whispers.

Igor hums agreement and falls asleep.

He wakes up when they get to Chris’s building and Sasha muscles him out of the car and into the elevator, propping him against the wall and holding him there as Igor tries to slide out of his grasp. Sasha laughs breathlessly, dragging him back upright.

“You’re wasted, Igoryok,” he says, and Igor lets his head fall forward onto Sasha’s shoulder. Sasha cups his head and holds him steady until the car dings and they stagger out into the hallway.

Igor can’t find his key so Sasha has to dig in his pockets, making Igor twitch and giggle.

“Ticklish,” he complains.

Somehow, Sasha gets him inside and into his bedroom. He sits Igor on the edge of the bed and kneels to take his shoes off. Igor blinks blearily and touches Sasha’s head.

Sasha freezes as Igor strokes his hair and slowly looks up. “Igor,” he says, and his throat works.

“You’re so beautiful,” Igor says, and falls backward onto his pillows. 

He wakes up with a blinding headache and a violently revolting stomach. Staggering out of bed, he makes it to the bathroom just in time to throw up. He clings to the toilet and wishes for death until his stomach stops heaving quite as much, then drags himself upright, rinses out his mouth, and stumbles back to bed. There’s a bottle of pain medicine and a glass of water on the bedside table, he discovers, and he takes a handful of pills with a grateful whimper before collapsing facedown across the covers.

Somewhere around noon, Chris kicks the door open. Igor drapes an arm over his eyes and moans, but Chris doesn’t take the hint.

“Rise and shine!” he says cheerfully, and drags the covers off.

Igor glares balefully at him from under his arm. He’d  _ just _ gotten comfortable.

“Mika made lunch,” Chris says. 

“I hate you,” Igor mutters, and rolls over to face-plant into his pillow.

Chris pats his ankle. “Sure, buddy. Up and at ‘em. What’d you say to Sasha last night? We bumped into him in the lobby and he looked like he’d seen a ghost.”

Igor sits up straight. His head protests and he clutches it, suddenly nauseous again.  _ Oh no. _ Had he… said something to Sasha the night before? The entire evening was a blur and he can’t remember—

Chris is watching him with raised eyebrows. “Was it something I said? Or something  _ you _ said?”

“Where’s my phone?” Igor pats the bed, increasingly frantic, until Chris holds it out. Igor grabs it and opens it with unsteady hands.

Sasha doesn’t answer when Igor calls.

Igor texts him.  _ What happened last night? _

The little  _ read _ notification pops up but Sasha still doesn’t answer.

“Hey,” Chris says, touching his shoulder. “Igor, what’s going on?”

Igor slides out of bed and fumbles for his shoes. “I have to go,” he manages around the worry choking him. Has he fucked it all up? Is Sasha angry? What did he  _ say? _

He can’t sit still for the ride to Sasha’s place, knee bouncing as he gnaws on a thumbnail. He’s sent Sasha probably half a dozen texts and heard nothing in return. Dread is taking seed in his stomach. If he’s fucked up his friendship with Sasha, he’ll—he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

Sasha doesn’t answer the door, but his car’s in the driveway. Igor knocks again, and then again, feeling like an idiot but refusing to move. After a few minutes, he pulls out his phone.

_ I’m not leaving until we talk, _ he sends.

About a minute later, the locks click and Igor ducks inside before Sasha can change his mind. He stops dead in the entryway.

“You look… terrible.”

Sasha glares at him. His hair is rumpled, dark circles under his eyes like he’s been awake for far too long. “Thank you,” he says icily, and stalks down the hall toward the kitchen.

Igor trails after him, unable to think of anything to say next.

Sasha was in the middle of making tea, apparently—he turns the heat back on under a kettle that’s steaming gently and there’s a cup with a teabag in it on the counter beside the stove.

Igor eases himself onto a stool, holding himself still. “About last night,” he says, and Sasha spins, eyes stormy.

“Am I a joke to you?”

The question is so unexpected that Igor blinks, stumped.

“No?” he says, not entirely sure that’s the right answer.

“Because I sure fucking  _ feel _ like one,” Sasha spits. 

“But—I don’t—why?” Igor asks helplessly.

“You just—you don’t even realize, do you?” Sasha makes a disgusted noise. “You come in here and you make everyone love you. You’re as good as Henke says you are, better maybe, but you don’t let it go to your head, you work harder than anyone, you’re fucking  _ perfect.” _ That last is hurled at Igor like an accusation, who feels like he’s on quicksand.

Sasha is on a roll.

“You don’t know what it’s like. How hard I had to fight to be accepted. Hearing the fans saying I need to be traded, that I’m pulling the team down. I’m trying  _ so hard _ but half the players think I’m an asshole because I don’t know how to say the right thing, I don’t fit in. The other half probably think it too, they just hide it better.”

“That’s not  _ true—” _

Sasha cuts him off. “Then you come in and of course everyone on the team thinks you’re fucking perfect, don’t they? Rookie fucking sensation Igor Shesterkin, the answer to all the Rangers’ troubles. You could have anyone you want with the crook of a finger, on  _ or _ off the team.”

“I don’t—”

“That’s not how I work,” Sasha says. “I can’t fall into anyone’s bed and not have it  _ mean _ something. I can’t, okay? So  _ stop fucking with my head!” _

Silence falls as they stare at each other. It’s broken by the shrill scream of the kettle, and Sasha jerks like he’s been burned, whirling to turn it off. When he turns back around, he looks shamefaced.

“I shouldn’t have—”

“What did I say last night?” Igor says before he can finish.

Sasha sighs and rubs his arm. “Nothing. Not really. You just… you said you wanted me. And I know it’s not real, okay? I know there’s nothing there. So just—please go away.” There’s defeat in the lines of his body, and Igor slides off the stool. He feels like he’s moving underwater, every step taking an age as his feet carry him around the counter until he stops, a careful two feet of space between them.

“What do you mean, there’s nothing there?” he asks softly.

Sasha gestures. “You—it’s just fun, for you. It’s not—”

“How do you  _ know _ there’s nothing there?” Igor says, and Sasha looks up sharply.

“Because—”

Igor waits but Sasha doesn’t finish the sentence.

“Remember when I offered, after your shutout?” Igor asks.

Sasha nods slowly.

“Why did you say no?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I think it does,” Igor says.

Sasha sighs. “I wanted you too much,” he says, almost inaudible.

Igor’s heart feels like it’s going to hammer right out of his chest. 

“I wanted—” Sasha rubs his face. “I knew if I said yes, I’d… fall in love with you. That I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. So I said no, and I thought I was safe, but then I—I fucking fell in love with you anyway, okay? Because you’re  _ you _ and it just  _ happened _ and I couldn’t stop it and—”

Igor puts a finger over his lips and Sasha shuts up, eyes wide. 

“I don’t know when I fell in love with you,” Igor says, and Sasha’s eyes go even wider. “I don’t think it was when I offered. But it  _ hurt _ when you turned me down. More than it should have. I didn’t understand—why. Why you said no. How you could choose Artemi instead.”

“Bread… has a girlfriend,” Sasha says. His voice is wobbly. “He l-loves her very much. He was… safe.” A tear slides down his cheek and Igor’s heart clenches. “I couldn’t stop th-thinking about you,” Sasha whispers, and Igor can’t take it any longer.

He lunges forward and so does Sasha, their lips meeting with something like desperation. Sasha tastes like salt, his breath hot on Igor’s skin, hands coming up to cup Igor’s face as he takes a ragged breath and slips his tongue between Igor’s lips.

“Igoryok,” he husks, breaking the kiss. “I want—”

Igor hauls him into another kiss, hungry and seeking. He slips his hands under Sasha’s T-shirt and splays his fingers against smooth skin, tracing the bumps of his spine, the curve of his ribs as Sasha twitches and swears breathlessly.

Igor gets the shirt up and over Sasha’s head, dropping it on the floor to look—really look—at him. Sasha’s satiny olive skin is dotted with freckles and moles, and Igor wants to get his mouth on every single one of them. He presses a kiss to Sasha’s collarbone, to the dip at the base of his throat where he can feel Sasha’s pulse beating frantically. Then he goes to his knees on the cold linoleum and reaches for his belt.

But Sasha is shaking his head with something like desperation, leaning down to haul him back to his feet. “No,” he says, kissing him again, hard and fast. “No,  _ no. _ I don’t—”

“You don’t want it?” Igor asks, heart sinking. “Me?”

“I  _ do,” _ Sasha says fiercely. “But our first time—I want it to be in a bed. Together. Not you sucking me off.”

Overwhelmed, Igor wraps his arms around Sasha’s neck and presses their cheeks together. Sasha holds him and they stand for a minute in the quiet kitchen, despite the urgency thrumming through Igor’s blood. He wants, he  _ wants, _ but he also never dreamed he’d be here, never allowed himself to imagine he’d get to have this, and he wants to savor it for as long as possible.

Sasha moves first, pulling him out of the kitchen and down the hall to the bedroom. He pushes Igor’s hands down and tugs his shirt off, then kisses him again, their bare chests pressed together. Igor is almost dizzy with hunger, at the warm skin on his and the feel of Sasha’s hands roaming across his shoulders and back. He moans in protest when Sasha steps away, but stifles the noise when he realizes he’s working on Igor’s belt. Sasha grins at him and shoves his pants down, following with his own, then pushes Igor gently down onto the bed.

He’s on right behind him, crawling up Igor’s body with purpose in his eyes, and Igor gulps.

Sasha props himself above him with one elbow and smiles down at him. “Hey,” he says softly. 

Igor turns his face into Sasha’s chest and takes a deep breath of his spicy aftershave. He thinks he could stay like this forever, warm and surrounded by the way Sasha smells and feels against him. On the other hand, he’s pretty desperate to get things moving, so he presses up, rubbing his length against Sasha’s thigh and savoring the quick intake of breath.

Sasha tips Igor’s head up and kisses him again, then trails his fingers down Igor’s sternum, over his pec and across his ribs, making him twitch. Sasha laughs, slightly breathless, and flattens his hand against Igor’s stomach.

“Still ticklish,” he murmurs, and slides his hand lower.

Igor’s eyes roll back when Sasha takes hold of him and he arches up off the bed with a bitten-off whimper. Sasha kisses the bolt of his jaw and strokes him with a smooth, firm grip. He slips his other arm under Igor’s head and pulls him close, pressing their cheeks together and flinging his leg over Igor’s hips.

“Wanted you for so long,” he whispers. 

Igor is shaking, sensation roaring through him making his toes curl. He somehow manages to work a hand between them and find Sasha’s cock, rewarded with another sharp gasp. His method is probably terrible, rhythm all over the place, but Sasha doesn’t seem to mind, judging by the noises he’s making and the way his hips are hitching into Igor’s hand.

“Igoryok,” he moans. “I can’t—”

“Come for me,” Igor says, and Sasha stiffens and cries out. Wetness splashes Igor’s belly and he’s lost, tumbling over the edge after him.

Sasha’s breath is soft and ragged in Igor’s hair, fine tremors still wracking his lean frame as they lie quietly in the afterglow, sated and warm.

Igor rubs his nose against Sasha’s throat and Sasha makes a noise, arms tightening.

“Am I dreaming?” he asks quietly.

Igor smiles against his skin, knowing Sasha can feel it. “We both are,” he whispers. “Don’t wake up.”

“Never,” Sasha says, and kisses his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! Thanks for sticking with me, guys! [Come visit me on Tumblr](http://greymichaela.tumblr.com) where I mostly complain about missing hockey and occasionally talk about my published works.

**Author's Note:**

> Me: I haven't written fanfic in too long, I crave validation and comments
> 
> Also me: I know, let's write a ship that literally _doesn't exist_!
> 
> Me: GENIUS
> 
> P.S. [Proof of Igor smiling at Chris](https://greymichaela.tumblr.com/post/190182855629/bonus-chris-is-a-very-proud-father), aka the moment I decided that Chris (and therefore Mika) had obviously adopted him.


End file.
